Memories
by goji1995
Summary: Stanford and Stanley have caused each other a lot of suffering over the years, but even through all of the resentment and bitterness towards one another, it is the memories of their youthful days together that have helped them both through the darkest days of their lives.


**Rated T for violence, swearing and some very dark themes (just thought I should warn you)**

MEMORIES

Stan was quickly realising that coming to the town of Agujero de Basura, Mexico, had been a mistake. As he had sat at the cheapest, filthiest bar in the downtown area, drinking what he was sure was watered down vodka, he had seen them enter, seven all too familiar men, members of the town's notorious Puñalada Vidrio gang. The gang had total control of this wretched place, and the law simply didn't care enough to even attempt to do anything to stop them. The seven men approached Stan, who pretended to ignore their presence. Just leave me alone, he thought.

"Why, look who it is", Santiago, their leader, said. "Stan, what's good?"

"Piss off", Stan grunted. He didn't care if they were a danger to him. He just wanted his goddamn peace.

"Now, now, no need for such language", Santiago continued, chuckling condescendingly. "But here's the thing, Stanny boy, I hear you have been making… trouble".

"What of it?" Stan said disinterestedly, taking another glug of his drink.

Santiago placed his arm on the bar and leaned in close to Stan.

"See, I don't know if you are familiar with this, amigo, but we are the ones in charge around here", he said. "You don't fucking mess with us unless you have some kind of death wish".

Stan's head was swimming from the alcohol, and though normally he'd be trying to find a way out of this by now, his intoxication and foul mood simply prevented him from giving a damn. He looked Santiago dead in the eye and said,

"What… of… it?"

The gangster laughed, running his hands through his greasy hair.

"Stan, you tried to screw us to get yourself some money, did you not?"

"Sounds about right".

"Well, if you want money so bad, how about we make a little arrangement. You beat Ricardo in a fight fair and square, we pay you. You lose, then… well, it is up to us what fate you meet".

Stan wasn't interested. Even if he won, these stains wouldn't pay up and he knew it, so he simply ignored the man.

"Playing it tough, eh Stan?" the gangster said, and with a snap of his fingers, Ricardo came to his boss's aid, grabbing Stan by the back of his shirt and pulling him from his barstool.

"WOAH, HEY, HEY", Stan barked, his survival instincts kicking back into gear.

Ricardo, the man practically a walking stack of muscles, threw him against the pool table, winding Stan as his back collided with it. He recovered as quick as he could to find that all seven men had formed a circle around him. Santiago pulled a gun on him, pushing it against his temple.

"You still sure you wanna turn down my offer? It would be unwise to do so, comprende?"

Stan was flying into a panic. He cursed himself for his words. What the hell had he been thinking, badmouthing scum like Santiago right to his face, he should have known it would have come to this. Nevertheless, he was stuck with it now.

"Alright, listen, I…" Stan said, "come on fellas, there's gotta be somethin' a little more reasonable we can sort out here".

The seven of them just laughed amusedly. Stan decided to make a break for it, but as soon as he did, the gangsters tightened their circle and pushed him back.

"So what'll it be, amigo?" Santiago said, placing his gun against Stan's head again.

He had no other choice. These people weren't going to let him go.

"Fine", Stan growled.

Santiago's face filled with a shit eating grin, and with another snap of his fingers, Ricardo lunged, plunging his fist into Stan's face, knocking him onto the pool table. Stan rolled off of it and barely dodged the hulking man's next attack.

I'm screwed, Stan realized with a burst of panic. You've really done it this time, Stanley. Stan swung his fists at Ricardo's scarred face, but the giant easily dodged his swings, and with rapid speed he planted his fist straight into Stan's stomach so hard that he almost vomited. He sprawled onto the floor, his vision blurred. Around him, the bar patrons were watching on with amusement. Of course, no decent folk would risk drinking in a hole like this.

Ricardo kicked Stan hard in the ribs, then picked him up by his collar to throw him against the wall. Stan struck out with his fists again, but none of his punches ever made contact. His final missed punch resulted in Ricardo grabbing his arm and throwing him, his head hitting the corner of the bar with a sickening crack. The other gangsters laughed delightedly. Nauseated and in far too much pain, Stan got to his feet again and placed his hand against the side of his head. He was bleeding from the impact. Rage was beginning to overtake him, control him even. Ricardo slowly made his way towards Stan, savouring every moment, cracking his knuckles.

"Give up yet?" Santiago mocked from afar. Stan's rage flared into pure hatred for that slimy bastard. Just as Ricardo reached out to grab him once again, Stan snapped. He dived into Ricardo, knocking him to the ground, then stomped as hard as he could on the gangster's groin, causing the giant of a man to roar in pain.

Stan pulled him to his feet and dragged him over to the bar, slamming his face into it. Stan felt a sick pleasure as he heard Ricardo's nose break, the giant screaming in pain. Meanwhile, the rest of the gangsters watched this was blank shock on their faces. Only seconds before, Stan had been defenceless. Ricardo should be destroying him right now.

Ricardo charged once again, ramming his enormous frame into Stan, but he simply swung Ricardo around and sent him flying to the ground. His rage was overwhelming right now, and he felt nothing but a raw, animalistic joy as he pinned his knee against Ricardo's chest and began to repeatedly slam his fists into the gangster's face. He drew blood, then more and more until Ricardo's face was covered in the crimson liquid, left nothing but a gasping, wheezing wreck. He'd knocked the man unconscious. Stan got to his feet, his entire body heaving as he gasped for breath, blood dripping from his clenched fists. He set his glare on the rest of the gangsters.

"THERE", he roared. "I WON. NOW GIVE ME MY FUCKING MONEY!"

Santiago could do nothing but stare at Stan with abject terror on his face, the rest of the gangsters in no better a state.

"I SAID", Stan continued as he approached the cowering man "GIVE. ME. MY. FUCKING. MONEY!"

Santiago quickly pointed his gun at Stan, about to pull the trigger before he managed to grab the weapon and throw it away. He grabbed Santiago by the collar.

"I have had enough of your shit", Stan hissed. "Now pay up, filth".

Santiago reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of pesos. Stan yanked it out of the gangster's hand and immediately turned on his heel to leave. He never wanted to see this place again, and he had no intention to.

He left the bar behind and stepped out into the polluted air of the downtown area. All around him there were dilapidated buildings covered in aged electric signs. He felt nothing but contempt and hatred for this whole rotten place.

Out of all the places he had seen in his travels, this was one of the worst. He marched away from the hustle and bustle of the busy streets, walking down quieter, albeit no less dingy, roads. Right now, he didn't know what to do. He was still furious, the throbbing pain in his head and the nausea certainly not helping the matter.

He wandered aimlessly across a bridge across the river that ran through the town. He decided to stop midway across when the nausea became too much. Leaning against the wall of the breach, he threw up profusely, his headache worsening as he did so. Then, he staggered to the other side of the bridge, away from the stench of his vomit, and collapsed to his knees, bursting into unapologetic tears. He scraped his bloodied knuckles against the sidewalk, his clenched fists shaking.

This is what he had been reduced to. For five years now, he'd been an aimless drifter, and this was what his life was now. He had no home, no family to turn to, barely enough money to even survive.

"What the hell is even the point", he snarled at the ground. "LOOK AT ME".

He couldn't believe how low his life had become. He had never been well off, but at least before he'd a roof to sleep under, a family to love him. At least before, he'd had Stanford. Now he was just alone, living a pointless and painful life. His beating to Ricardo had been the result of five years of frustration, anger and bitterness pouring out in one heated rage. He had not felt human as he had done it, but it had allowed him to survive at least.

But was that a good thing, he wondered? He pulled himself to his feet and looked around himself, looked at the shithole town he'd wound up, listened to the silence that permeated this part of town. He was utterly alone right now, not even strangers to bother him. Then he looked down at the river beneath him, stared at the rocks sticking out of it. He grabbed the wall of the bridge.

It would be so easy. So very, very easy to jump from this bridge, so very easy to end the miserable wreck that was his life. Then, he felt an overwhelming urge to do it, to put himself out of his misery. Do it, he internally screamed at himself, DO IT NOW.

He climbed onto the wall of the bridge, placing his feet at the edge. One more little motion would finish the job. A sickening rush of excitement raced through him, his adrenaline pumping, egging him on. But then, he stopped. And he thought. Thought back to his home, to his days with his twin brother. The happy times before now. And they gave him strength.

So many times over these difficult years, his happy memories had pulled him back from the edge when his mind had threatened to fall into a pit of despair. They told him to keep going, to keep surviving, even if it was hard, even if every day in this life of endless suffering was hell. He tried to fight back. That's the past, he told himself. Why do you still care about your old life, it never brought you anything good. Why care about your memories of Ford, he was the one who stood by and did nothing while dad kicked you out.

Yet despite these protests, the memories still calmed him and pulled him back from the edge once again. With a sigh, he dismounted the wall of the bridge. He left without stopping to reconsider, walking off to a different part of town. He was pretty sure he remembered where he had parked his car. Sure enough, he found his beat up old vehicle near some battered old apartments. Unlocking it, he climbed into the backseat and lay down on his side.

He knew he should probably tend to his head after it had been hit, but right now he didn't care, he just wanted to sleep. He took off his coat and pulled it over himself as a makeshift blanket. Despite the discomfort of sleeping in a car, he was used to it by now, so it didn't take him long to drift into drowsiness. Now he thought back to his old life once again. He still felt a lot of bitterness and resentment towards Ford, but none of it had any meaning, and he knew it.

He had, after all, taken Stanford's dreams away from him, and even though it had been an accident, he knew that his brother had had a right to be angry. He was still furious with him for standing by and doing nothing as he was kicked out, but he knew, in his heart of hearts, that he would forgive all of it in a second if Stanford ever gave him the chance to do so. He just wanted his brother back, above all else.

With these thoughts rolling in, Stan began to feel the hole in his heart and the stabbing emotional pain of it all again. Not right now, he told himself. Think of happier times. And so, once again, he slumped away into his happy memories. They felt more and more distant with every passing day it seemed, but they were there nonetheless.

Now, he found himself remembering a distant time when the two of them were twelve. Stan had just failed a test, and felt, yet again, like an idiot. He had always felt somewhat inferior to his brother for this, but at the time, as always Stanford had comforted him.

"Don't worry Stanley", he had said, "your brain just works in a different way is all".

"But that's baloney", Stan said, "face it sixer, I'm just an idiot".

"You're not just an idiot", Ford said, "you're my brother, and I wouldn't want you to be any different than you are right now. So you failed some dumb test, so what? Like I said, you just think in a different way, and it's your knucklehead brain that's helped both of us through a lot of stuff in life. Don't forget that, Stanley".

A big grin filled Stan's face, the embarrassment and shame washed away in an instant.

"Yeah, you're right", Stan said, "I mean it's not like I wanna be a poindexter like you anyway", he teased.

"Better than being a meathead like you", Ford teased right back.

They both burst into laughing.

"High six?" Stan said.

"High six", Ford agreed, and the two of them slammed their palms together.

Now, in the present day, thinking back to this memory warmed Stan, a smile crossing his face as he closed his eyes. Back before all of this terrible shit, Ford had always made Stan feel better about his insecurities, cheered him up when he doubted himself. Stanford had been his best friend, and even though that was no longer true, the memories still kept him going. He kept thinking of other memories, and slowly, despite all the misery of his current life, despite the discomfort and the pain, he fell into a happy, peaceful sleep.

* * *

Ford hid in a ditch beneath the "roots" of the treelike organism. Outside, the razor sharp winds battered the landscape, the sturdy creature under which he now sat groaning under the pressure. Ford hoped his fortifications would hold, but as he looked at the mesh of rocks and bones he had used to cover the exits looked as though they would break at any moment.

"Just keep it together Stanford", he chided himself. He often talked to himself these days. Talking was one of the few things that kept him somewhat sane these past ten years. The world he'd found himself was not a kind one by any stretch of the imagination. If he went outside now, the winds would tear him to shreds. The noise was unbearable and clawed away at his mind.

"Shouldn't be much longer", he said, though he knew he was lying. He had been saying that the past thirty-six hours. He was low on water, as well as what passed for food in this world. He had had to sit here in utter darkness that entire time, praying the winds would pass, but pass they hadn't, and he was beginning to wonder if they ever would. His mind wandered to home, to earth.

How he longed to be back there. Even though his final years there had been torment at the hands of Bill, he would rather face that than stay here a second longer, yet stay here he must. He was condemned to remain forever in this hell, alone, for the rest of his life. And who knew how long that would be.

He had survived ten years, yes, but in a place like this, any day could be his last. Finally, after such a long, wearisome time, the winds began to calm, and slowly, over the course of two hours, faded away completely until there was naught but silence. Ford's ears were buzzing loudly. Thirty six long hours of unbearably loud noise was not at all good for his tinnitus, that was for sure.

Slowly, he painfully got to his feet, his ribs still aching from their most recent injury. He barely noticed. Pain had become an almost meaningless concept these past years. Ford dismantled his barricades and stepped outside, breathing in the thick, sickly air. For the first few weeks, it had made him constantly sick, giving him nausea, migraines and constant cramps, but slowly his body had adapted to it.

He looked at the landscape before him, saw the long stretch of rocky fields cut into blade-like shapes by the winds. In the distance was his target, the sharp, jagged black mountains that he had been aiming for, looming ominously into the dark purple sky. Orange lightning danced constantly around their peaks, enormous bolts of it cutting into them. Ford took one last look at the "tree" that had been its refuge. It was certainly very tree-like, but it was an entirely different type of organism. It was a dark pink colour, and its trunk was very much a fleshy substance, albeit tough. Its branches ended in snaring tentacles, snatching through the air for the drifting sky-plankton that was its food. Various bulbs across its form lit up an electric blue colour with bioluminescence. Remarkably, it showed no damage from the wind.

Truly it was a creature hardened by this nigh uninhabitable world. Ford turned his attention back to the mission at hand, and began to move between the blades of rock into the fields stretching away in front of him. As he did, he kept on constant alert. The jagged passageways between these blades were an ideal habitat for the horrific creatures that inhabited this land.

"I don't even know why I'm doing this, truth be told", Ford told himself for the thousandth time. "I'm just doing it to… well, to do something really. Might as well find out what lies beyond those mountains. Maybe someone to talk to besides yourself, Stanford, that'd be nice, wouldn't it?"

He thought his statement over.

"No, probably not actually. Knowing this place, it'd probably just be some kind of abomination trying to trick me. It's a nice thought though, I suppose".

A hollow, crackling screech emanated from the distance. Ford shivered. He had never heard that noise before, but whatever it belonged to, he didn't want to meet it. It took a few more hours of traversing the passageways, getting lost once or twice, but finally he did reach the foot of the mountains.

There was no entry way between them at the bottom, so for the next few hours, he was scrambling up the impossibly steep sides of the mountains, almost tumbling to the bottom several times due to the loose stones on the mountainside. He was sweating profusely, his ribs burning, but he kept going regardless. Stopping to rest was pointless, there was no true rest to be found here or anywhere else in this unholy place.

About three quarters of the way into his ascent, he found a small pool of water. He gratefully refilled his flask and glugged it down. It tasted heavily of sulphur, but he had long since gotten used to the revolting flavour. Water was water, after all. Finally, he reached the top of his long climb, and found at long last found a path that leg between two of the mountains, albeit a narrow, craggy one, and, also, with an undoubtable ravine to the right hand side of it, but it would do.

And so he pressed on, winding his way along the narrow path, the rock frequently crumbling beneath his feet and almost sending him to his doom, but such things no longer bothered him much at all. The path went up and down the slope, winding between multiple mountains, the daunting ravine ever present. At one point, he reached the end of the path, upon which he was forced to jump across the gap to the other side, barely avoiding falling down.

"That was a close one", he muttered nonchalantly.

The path now took him inside one of the mountains through a lengthy cave, smelling far too strongly of petroleum for his liking. He flinched at any noise. He had found that caves housed the worst creatures of all, plenty of which he sincerely wished he had never even set eyes upon. He couldn't deny his tension right now, but he pressed on, and eventually emerged to the other side. Now there were paths on two sides, each of them mercifully wide. He jumped across to the right hand side and continued on his way.

The path steeply descended and ascended at frequent intervals now, at one point almost reaching the peaks, the orange lightning unnervingly close now. It was here, exposed to the sky, that Ford heard them. The mortifying screams of the creatures he had named the reapers.

"No no no, not now, not now", he hissed under his breath.

But sure enough, from above there swooped a pack of five of the creatures. Ford broke out into a run, panicking, but almost in an instant the reapers were upon him. They were amongst the worst of this world's monsters, with dry, dark grey skin stretched across skeletal frames, leathery, bat-like wings and long arms ending in razor sharp claws with greater sharpness than an obsidian knife. But the worst part of all were the faces, those thin, skull like faces with red eyes glaring out of sunken sockets. Their penetrating screams racked his ears as they lashed out at him.

Ford barely dodged their attacks, missing their claws by mere centimetres. Pulling out the plasma gun at his hip, Ford aimed futile shots at them, each blast missing them as the rapid creatures deftly evaded the attacks. At least it helped to keep them at bay. Suddenly one of the reapers kicked out its hind leg and the claws slashed deep into Ford's left shoulder. He hissed loudly from the pain but kept going regardless.

The path dipped back downwards again, going down between the mountains again. Perhaps, just maybe, he'd find a cave here to escape them, but his hopes weren't up. As Ford turned to shoot at one of the creatures, he did not see the next one swoop down at him, and its kick sent him tumbling off the path and down the steep slope. He kept rolling downwards, painfully hitting rocks as he did. The reapers were still flying after him, but he hoped it would not be for much longer. Several times Ford rolled off of ledges and fell, hitting the ground hard each time.

He tried to slow himself, and slowly, he managed to gain a hold, using his hands to steady himself, his palms getting all but torn to shreds in the process. Finally, he came to a halt on one final ledge, hanging over the very bottom of the ravine, a more bleak and hollow expanse than the rest of these mountains combined. Everything was in pain right now, and Ford suspected his hadn't escaped without damage. He was right. He found that his right leg had a deep gash full of pebbles and dirt.

"Of course, as if the shoulder scratch wasn't enough to deal with", he said.

At least the reapers seemed to have given up their pursuit. Then, to his horror, the ledge gave way and he fell into the bottom of the ravine. He felt his legs buckle painfully beneath him as he landed, the rest of his pains amplified by the impact.

"Shit", he hissed upon realising that he was unable to stand up, "shit shit shit".

Ford had never been one to swear back home, but he had become much more lucid with it these days. His right leg was now even more messed up than before. Not only did it have the gash, but it was also badly sprained now. He would have to find shelter and continue this tomorrow. It was indeed getting darker now he noticed.

This world was constantly dark, but this was the approach of the deeper darkness that signified night. Spying a cave, Ford began to crawl slowly towards it. Even though they were dangerous, caves would protect him if the weather grew worse.

If the winds returned, or acid rains were let loose, he didn't want to be caught out in the open. It was then that yet another otherworldly howl met his ears, coming from the cave.

"Not now, please not now", Ford begged.

But, to his dismay and horror, something did indeed emerge from the caves. This was a new one. It was a black, hulking creature the size of three tigers stuck together, six legs, three tails, and an eyeless head that ended in a circular mouth full of rings of teeth, the mouth surrounded by hooked tentacles.

The creature spotted him despite its lack of eyes, and immediately began its unnervingly rapid charge. His eyes bulging, Ford ran as fast as he could through the basin, desperate to evade the nightmarish monstrosity, but in barely five seconds it was upon him. He turned and aimed his gun into its face, but its tentacles grabbed his weapon and flung it away.

The monster pinned him down, wrapping its tentacles around him as its mouth opened horrifyingly wide, its saliva dripping onto his face as it prepared for the kill. Ford stared wide eyed into the abyss of its throat, his life flashing before his eyes. Right at this moment, rage at Stanley flared within him. I'm going to be eaten alive thanks to that bastard, he yelled internally. The monster raised him up and lifted his head into its mouth.

Then, Ford remembered what he had in his pocket. He lunged into it and pulled out the enormous knife that he had stowed within, and then plunged the blade into the creature's face. It shrieked in agony, dropping Ford as it backed away. Ford got to his feet, heaving for breath. The monster quickly recovered and charged him once again, but as it grabbed him, Ford stabbed the beast repeatedly, golden blood spurting out of the wounds.

The monster relented again and ran a considerable distance away, watching him cautiously as blood gushed out of it. Ford didn't waste another second, and bolted towards his gun, grabbing it and turning it to the highest setting possible. The monster made one final attempt on its prey's life, bolting forward and once again wrapping its tentacles around him. Ford allowed it to open its mouth wide again, then fired the gun, releasing an enormous bolt of plasma straight down its throat. The creature's insides lit up as its organs burnt to a crisp.

It dropped dead in an instant, having not even had the time to acknowledge its final mistake. Ford gasped for air, clutching his aching ribs as he did. His entire body screamed for sleep, and he fully intended to comply.

He painfully hobbled away, each step burning agony to his wounded leg. Slowly he calmed down, his adrenaline fading away. He hoped the creature was a solitary and territorial species, because one way or another he was sleeping in that cave, and he did not want to meet another of its kind.

Upon entering the cave, Ford saw that the cave was fairly small, but plenty spacious for his needs. He collapsed onto the ground, leaning his back against a boulder. He was exhausted, and he wanted to fall asleep more than anything, but he had to attend to some things first.

From his pack, he pulled out a large, maggot-like creature, dead but still fairly fresh, as well as his last one. Slicing the creature's head off, he allowed its juices to flow into his leg injury, soothing the burning pain. It also, thankfully, acted as a disinfectant.

Healing grubs, as he had named them, were one of the few creatures he was grateful for in this world. Next, he rubbed the maggot onto his injured shoulder, and he sighed in relief as the sharp pain was relieved. Now, he took out his plasma gun and placed it on the lowest setting. That blast he had used against the creature had almost entirely drained its energy (lord knows where he would find more), but there was enough left for this.

After plucking the stones still stuck in his leg out, Ford placed the gun into his wound and pulled down the trigger, releasing a thin beam of plasma. He gritted his teeth against the pain as his injury was cauterised.

It wouldn't be good to walk on for days, but at least nothing could infect the wound now. He considered trying to cauterise his shoulder, but knew that attempting such would result in disaster. He would simply have to let that one heal on its own. Now, he lay down against the hard stone floor. He had gotten used to sleeping on hard surfaces, but god what he wouldn't give to sleep in a bed again, or on any comfortable surface for that matter.

For now, he put his worries to rest. If he didn't, he wouldn't get any sleep regardless of how exhausted he was. His mind drifted to the past, to his days as a child with Stanley. Why are you thinking about HIM again, he thought. He's the reason you're here. He's the one who pushed you in, and now you're stuck because of him. He's nothing but a useless disaster of a brother. Yet, despite these harsh thoughts, his anger did not linger.

No matter how angry he was at Stanley, this hadn't been something his brother had meant to happen. Sighing, he allowed the memories to flow through him. The memories of those happy days were one of the few things that kept him sane in this place, and for that, at least, he needed to be grateful to Stan. More than once, those memories had saved his life as he had placed the plasma gun against his head and had come so close to pulling the trigger. Now, he thought back to a day when the two of them were ten, and Ford had simply had enough of everything. The bullying, the anxiety, his father's temper. He had ran, ran far away from town until he found himself out in an old grassy field, old farming equipment rusting away. It had been raining profusely, so Ford had sat inside an old tractor and let loose his tears.

He was so frustrated with everything, nothing good ever seemed to happen. All people seemed to do was mock him for his extra fingers, or his intelligence, or his interests. They never saw value in him for anything, and he was sick of it. He sobbed into his hands, wanting nothing but to be left alone. But he had realised that he wasn't alone when he heard Stanley say,

"Stanford?"

He jolted in the seat, staring to his left. His brother was indeed standing out there next to him, the rain soaking him.

"Stanley?" he had said, embarrassedly wiping away his tears. "Wh-what are you doing here?"

"To find you, poindexter", he said in a soothing voice. "You ran away, so I came to look for you".

"How did you know I'd be here?" Ford said.

Stan walked to the other side of the tractor and got in the seat next to his brother. Then, he shrugged.

"Huh?" Ford said in confusion.

"I don't know how I knew, I just did", Stan said.

"I just wanted some time away from it all", Ford said. "I would have come back, you didn't need to come looking for me".

"That's not the point, sixer", Stan said, smiling consolingly. "I know it all gets to be too much sometimes. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. It's fine if you wanna cry, I won't tell anyone if that's what you're worried about".

And cry Ford did, sobbing for a while into his palms. Stan placed his hand on his brother's shoulder, and slowly, the tears subsided.

"Th-thanks", Ford mumbled.

"S'no problem", Stan said, grinning. "You feelin' any better?"

Ford did not answer, but instead pulled his brother into a hug. They did not hug often, but when they did, there was nothing better to relieve emotional hurt.

Back in the present, Ford, despite all his bitterness and resentment to Stan, cracked a genuine smile. For now, he forgot about the pain, forgot about the discomfort of the cave floor, forgot about his exile into this terrifying dimension, he even forgot about his anger to his brother. For now, he simply surrounded himself in the memories, and within minutes, he had fallen into a deep sleep.

 **A/N: Alright, first off, since I know people can be offended by such things, I should say that the town featured here is not a "what I think Mexico is like" type of deal, it's literally just a really shitty town, every country has 'em. Furthermore, as for the world Ford is in, we don't yet know in the show if he stayed in one world the entire time or if he somehow went dimension hopping, so I left that unanswered deliberately. He could have been here a few months, a few years, or even the entire decade if he did indeed stay in one world the whole time. So I hope you enjoyed, and thanks so much for reading :)**


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